


24-Hour Lifetimes

by undersail2013



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 50 first dates - Freeform, Alternate Canon, M/M, Plot-what-plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-16 03:46:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1330750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undersail2013/pseuds/undersail2013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean goes to sleep in 2016 and wakes up in 2007.  Every day.  He thinks he has six months before he goes to Hell, but on the good days, Cas can still take him to Heaven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introductions

The morning light streams straight through the sheer curtains, shining full in his eyes.

He buries his face in the plump, warm pillow, rubs his nose sleepily into the white cotton, sighing at the surprisingly sweet smell of it. Not the usual institutional clean-smell of motel sheets nor even like his own freshly laundered shirts, thick with the perfume of dryer sheets. The pillow smells- nah. It smells like a lover. Not in a filthy way. Dean can't explain it, just knows that this is the scent of someone else, someone else's shampoo and soap and essence, mingled with his own. He inhales greedily without understanding why it makes him feel so ... so light.

It is too early in the morning for poetry.

He fumbles for his phone to check the time, before he realizes that he has no idea where he is. Nothing new there, really. He's spent his whole life waking up in strange beds, groggy and disoriented.

He pulls himself up onto his elbows and peers around the room. Looks like every other motel room he's ever seen: gaudy wallpaper (this time, it's a Western motif, cream-colored with a repeating pattern of sarapes, sombreros, and six-shooters), Highwaymen artwork on the walls (desert landscapes and bleached cow bones), a decorative screen made of wagon wheels. He spies a kitchenette with a mini-fridge, a rusty old range, and a small dinette set. Two beds separated by a night stand with a lamp in the shape of a cowboy boot.

Dean cocks his head to one side. Well, that's weird. There's a picture frame lying face-down on the night stand.

He whips the covers off and swings his legs over the edge. His bare feet curl unconsciously into the thick shag carpeting. He frowns at the burgundy floor covering; as soft and delicious as it feels under his toes, he can't help doubting the wisdom of shag in a place as notoriously unclean as a motel. Still, this one seems nicer than most.

He scrubs his face under the heels of his hands and scratches at his scalp, ruffling his bedhead into a lopsided fauxhawk. After a good stretch and a deep yawn, his eyes alight again on the photo frame. Someone must have left it behind. Curiosity gets the better of him, and his hand darts out to pick it up.

He takes one look and shouts, almost throws it to the ground. "What the hell?" He gingerly picks up the picture and stares again, trying to puzzle it out.

It’s his face.

It's a picture of him. Sam, too. But the third man in the photo is a stranger.

It makes no sense. Why would Sam have a photo, in a frame, of himself and Dean, let alone one with Dean's arm slung across a stranger's shoulders? Smiling, no less. It makes no sense.

He cracks open the back of the picture frame. As he'd hoped, there's writing on the back of the photo. In his own handwriting, the words "Making it official, 8/17/15. Sam, Dean, Cas Winchester."

Well fuck, that explains jack shit. Like he's supposed to believe that this photo was taken, what, eight years in the future? Bullshit.

Putting the picture frame back together before he finds and beats Sammy for the prank, he notices an envelope taped to the backing cardboard. Within, a folded piece of paper and a pink post-it note. Weird.

He doesn't recognize the handwriting on the post-it, and he barely spares it a glance, because the bigger note says "Dean" in Sam's neatest writing, large block capitals, and underlined three times. "Hey Dean, No rush this morning, everything's cool. Meet me outside when you're ready and we'll talk. There's someone here you gotta meet. -SAM"

He flips it over, inspects it for codes or any indication that everything is not as cool as Sam claims, but the page is otherwise bare. He turns his attention to the other message. In an old-fashioned, spidery cursive, it reads, "Good morning, Dean. I look forward to meeting you today. Sincerely, Cas" The only other mark on the paper is a small symbol to the left of the name, which could be a 13 or maybe a B like the Boston Red Sox, but either way, it's embellished. Fussy, like the writing. He wonders about the person who wrote it. And why put these notes here in the first place, unless it's a code unto itself? If they had wanted him to see them, why hide them behind a picture of-

Cas?

Cas, like the guy in the picture, Cas?

Dean re-reads the words on the back, then scrapes the picture off of the glass and examines it closely. He really has no memory of it, and he suspects it's been altered. 

The stranger is Cas. Dark hair and a light complexion. Nicely dressed in black slacks and a blue button-down, a black vest, and a matching tie. A tiny bit shorter than Dean, or maybe that's just the camera angle, hard to say. And hello baby blues! He's got a soft smile on his lips, but the rest of it is in those eyes. The guy's actually kinda hot, not that Dean would admit that out loud; he files away the face for, uh, future reference. 

His own face looks a bit thinner, but otherwise pretty similar. But happy. Really happy. Like, not Dean-Winchester-happy but normal-people-happy, and wearing an expensive-looking three-piece suit and a fucking gorgeous wool overcoat. Dean grins, imagining that it looks like something an Untouchable would wear. 

Sam looks very different, and it’s not just the caveman hair to his shoulders. His face looks wider, harder, like he’s seen some shit and lived to tell the tale. He’s dressed in a dark gray suit and tie and smiling like he used to when they were kids, like a huge happy puppy-dog. 

“Making it official” sounds like someone’s getting hitched. Dean wonders where the bride is. On a very different train of thought, why is the stranger given the name of Winchester? Dean worries for a moment that the guy might be some long-lost cousin and re-thinks the “save it for later” strategy. 

Tapping his thumb against the photo and staring blankly into the eyes of the stranger is getting him nowhere fast. He sighs, tucks the notes back into the envelope, reassembles the picture frame. He’ll find Sam and demand an explanation before the morning is out. 

After a long hot shower and some time to work on this puzzle, Dean has reached two very important conclusions: 1) if this guy is his cousin, Dean deserves his one-way ticket to hell, and 2) amnesia sucks. He feels like he’s in a soap opera. Consoling himself with the knowledge that it’s neither the first nor the last time he’ll wake up with no memory of where he is nor what he did last night, he throws on a pair of faded jeans, a tight grey tee, and a dark denim shirt, steps into his boots, and secures the laces. His jacket must still be in the car, but it’s unseasonably warm as he steps outside. He wonders idly where they are; he hears the Florida winters are ten kinds of wonderful. The first thing he sees is his Baby, gleaming so sleek and pretty in the morning light. He never did find his phone, but his watch reads 9:06. 

There’s a small terrace and a few ornamental garden chairs just to his left, and there he finds both Sam and the stranger, sipping coffee and enjoying a fine view of the gravel parking pad and the motel’s driveway winding to the right. No, they must be looking at the lake, just beyond the field opposite the access road. Turning to greet them, he realizes that they are well aware of his presence, their heads swiveling towards him in unison. Creepy.

“Hey,” he waves, striding forward. “Morning, Sammy. Who’s our guest?” If they don’t want to tell him outright, he’s not about to let on.

Sam gives him a fake smile, and the stranger actually grimaces and looks away. No, that’s not sketchy at all. Dean’s all for treating this as a trap. 

“Dean, this is Cas. He’s- well, we go way back.” Not a cousin, then. Awesome.

“Cas, huh?” reaching for the guy’s hand. “Nice to meet you. You seem a bit familiar; have we met?”

Whoa, the look of- is that hope?- in his eyes forces Dean to take a step back.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you, big guy. You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Dean adds flippantly, chuckling.

“No, I just thought that you-” The man shakes his head. “Forgive me.”

“Sammy, can I have a word with you? Uh, in private?”

Sam glances at the stranger- Cas- before standing and following Dean a short distance away. “What’s up?”

“‘I found your glasses,’” Dean says, dropping childhood code.

Sam sighs. “‘They were on the sidewalk in Lawrence.’ Yes, it’s me,” aggravation in his tone.

“Okay, I get it,” holding up his hands for peace. “Look, I don’t wanna call you out in front of your friend, but the photo of you and me and him,” gesturing with his chin, “it creeped me out, and I’d rather you didn’t pull these bullshit stunts on me. Especially this morning, because I must have got dinged pretty good last night. Can’t remember a thing about where we are and how we got here.”

Sam nods. “Yeah, that sounds about right. Look, um, sorry about that, I guess it was insensitive of me.”

“’S okay, Sammy, don’t listen to me. Anyway, this guy, what’s his deal?”

“Oh, well, uh. Actually, he’s been hunting with us for a while. And he’s definitely friendly. You guys seem to get along really well. Like you have an _understanding_ or something,” and it’s not Dean’s imagination that Sam put a lot of emphasis on the word “understanding.”

“Huh. Yeah, okay. So what happened last night, huh?”

“Maybe Cas can answer that better than I can.”

Cas stands and pulls out a chair for Dean as the brothers approach. “Please sit, Dean.” He looks like every bad cliché of chivalry, holding the chair for the lady, and it makes Dean laugh. “Sorry, just looks like you’re waiting for your wife. Oh!”

“What?”

“The picture. The bride.”

Cas tilts his head fully to the left, eyes wide. 

“It was your wedding, huh?”

As hard as Dean is fighting to keep this light, he can’t help but feel absolutely rotten about the way Cas’ jaw tightens, how his whole body seizes up for a beat. He just manages an “Excuse me” before he’s turning on his heel and stalking away.

“What’s his deal?” Dean asks, pretending not to care. His eyes follow the man involuntarily. 

“He, uh. Yeah. It was his wedding photo, and the person he married, uh, is gone.”

“Dude. I didn’t know.”

“Yeah. Um. Look, Dean, this never gets any easier, and dammit, I’m just gonna come out and say it. Um. You had an accident, a while back, and you lost a huge chunk of your memory.”

“Define huge.”

He nods, looks like he’s screwing up his courage. “What day is it, Dean?”

Dean thinks a moment. He’s not really sure. Every time he’s tried to answer that, the idea of days has just kinda slid away from him. Like there’s a time cog somewhere in his brain, but it’s out of sync. No, more like it slipped its gear, and just as he gets it back on track, the teeth catch on a different cog altogether. No, the first one. Maybe. He shakes his head. “I don’t know what day exactly. I can’t get a 20 on it in my brain. But I know I have about six months left.”

“Six months left. Before your deal comes due.”

“Yeah,” like, come on, Sammy, you can’t have forgotten that!

Sam takes a deep breath, blows it out. “Right, yeah, except. Um. That was eight and a half years ago, Dean.” He can’t look Dean in the face, knows how it’s contorting from having explaining this way too many times. He plows ahead, “You died, an angel named Castiel pulled you from hell, he helped us stop the Apocalypse. It’s April 8th, 2016, and he’s still with us, fighting with us, and it doesn’t matter if you believe me, because I’ll be telling you this all over again tomorrow, because you won’t fucking remember!” 

“Sammy, I-” Dean scowls, balls his fists. “Bullshit!” he roars. “That is bullshit, Sammy, there is no way that I-”

“You go to sleep, you wake up, and it’s like your brain resets to the winter of ’07. Sometimes you remember Christmas, and sometimes you remember as far as your birthday in ’08. But…” Sam trails off, looking back towards Cas.

“But what?”

“You never remember him.”

“So?” Besides the fact that he’s kinda cute, why would that-

“Because you love him.”

Dean’s vision whites out.

“Or you did. Before.”

“Sammy, this is- This is not a conversation I’m prepared to have with you. Like ever.”

“Goddamn it, Dean, don’t you understand? We have this conversation EVERY DAY! And sometimes it’s easy and sometimes, dammit, sometimes you get so angry and so frustrated, you run away and we have to search for you for days!” Sam’s hands are jumping at his side. “Dean. Believe me when I say, this isn’t easy for any of us. Not you, not me, and certainly not Cas. But I promise you, we are both here to help you. Cas especially, because he won’t let his hus- Because he- Just, Jesus, just go talk to him. He’s better at this than I am. And I have to get back to work.”

“Work?”

“Yes, work. We can’t hunt anymore. Not and take care of you. Shit, that came out wrong. But Dean, your condition-”

“My condition?” He can feel his face heating, the anger building.

“Whatever. The point is, it’s just the two of us left, and it takes a lot of effort every day and- We can’t let you go to a-”

“Spit it out, Sammy,” Dean’s voice riding a fine line between vehemence and desperation.

“We kinda run a motel. We set up one of the rooms just for you, so you wouldn’t wake up freaking out anymore.”

“Anymore?”

“Just- Go talk to Cas, okay? Apologize. You may not know him from a stick, but you two are the best things that ever happened to each other. So play nice.”


	2. Today Was a Good Day

"Hey, uh, you're Cas, huh?" Dean asks, parked safely just outside of the other man's personal space.

The stranger in the black peacoat squares his shoulders but doesn’t turn around, doesn't say a word.

Dean clears his throat. "I saw the portrait on the night stand."

Silence.

"We looked happy."

"Yes. We were. Sometimes we are."

"Are you saying that sometimes I remember, or-"

The stranger- Cas- sighs. His hand rises briefly to his face; Dean can just see him use his thumb to swipe at his cheekbone. "No, you never do. I often believe- No."

"I'm sorry, I don't really understand what's happening. And on top of everything else, I just, well, I find it really hard to believe that I'm married to a man. It doesn't sound like me, and-"

"What are you implying?"

Taken aback by the defensive tone, Dean backpedals. "That's not what I mean. Shit. I'm trying to- Look, _Cas,_ " he says, emphasizing the name, "What I'm trying to say is, I've fought myself so hard on, uh, the guy thing, and if I stopped, fighting that is, over you, well, you must be worth it."

The other man inhales sharply, and Dean isn't sure what to do. "Um. And you're, uh, well you know you're hot," he chuckles, nervously testing his powers. How flirt with man? "So I guess what I mean is, how'd you like to grab some coffee with me and explain what the hell’s going on?"

He tips his chin to his chest, and Dean hears a faint laugh fall from his lips and whispered words: "As many times as it takes."

At last, he turns to face Dean. Yes, his eyes are red and wet, but still he is gorgeous, and Dean marvels that at one point he called this man his husband.

Will call? This situation is still so disorienting, like he woke up in the future and the past at the same time. It occurs to him that he has no future beyond today. He, and his family with him, is trapped in a permanent present, and the walls close in. Oh shit, he's hyperventilating.

A hand lands on his shoulder, a thumb running solidly against the seam of his shirt, a soft deep voice rumbling calm nothings, bringing him back to himself.

Regaining control, he lifts his head to thank Cas, but the word dies on his lips when he sees , live and in person, the most ridiculous blue eyes. Holy hell, but he's starting to understand what he saw in this guy. And instead of "Thanks," he blurts, "God, you're gorgeous."

***

Over breakfast, Cas gives Dean the Cliffs Notes version, which pretty well mirrors the version Sam had given. But calmer, and focused less on the accident and more on their own history. That they'd been friends and hunting buddies for several years. That he'd been an honest-to-god fucking angel. That he fell and became basically human and gave up eternity. That all he wanted was to live and die a Winchester. Cas explains the gist of Team Free Will without delving too far into the Apocalypse Sam had mentioned, nor what came after. Knowing the shit-storms that follow his family, knowing that the flatness in his brother's eyes has only increased in his "absence," Dean gets the sense that he's being treated to the highlight reel, the greatest hits. Fine by him. Their time is limited; as far as he's concerned, the uglier footage can stay on the cutting room floor.

Cas can't keep his eyes off Dean. It's weird, but Dean doesn't mind. In fact, he kinda likes having an excuse to let his own eyes linger on the guy. "Handsome" doesn't begin to describe him. If it was just a physical attraction, Dean knows how to suppress that. Hasn't he spent the last twenty years hiding his boy-crushes? Maybe it's the fact that this isn't a crush, this, this whatever-it-is is a real relationship, maybe the first of his life, and that he doesn't have to doubt and second-guess the other person's feelings for him. The way Cas looks at him, like he's the last piece of pie on the buffet, well, maybe he should feel offended, but in reality it makes him feel pretty fucking powerful. Like all he has to do is snap his fingers, and this hot piece of ass will come running. If he wants to test the waters, this guy has a poling skiff ready to take him out, like, yesterday.

Yesterday. Now there's a thought.

"Hey Cas?" he asks around a mouthful of waffle.

"Yes, Dean?" 

He swallows before continuing. "Do we meet every day?"

"Do we-? Um, no, not every day." He sips his coffee. "Usually it's easier to let you believe that I don't exist. It just depends on the day." 

Dean frowns. "So why today?"

Cas looks up, finds his eyes. "It was your idea."

"Mine? How?"

A small smile lights Cas' face. "We met by accident yesterday. Over the course of 141 days, it had never happened." 

Dean doesn't miss that Cas knows exactly how long it's been. "But we had met, right?"

"Of course," the light in his eyes dimming. "But not often. And getting past the gay panic was usually more trouble than it was worth," he adds, but the sigh gives him away. 

"This has been hard on you."

Cas snaps and suddenly he's a whirlwind, a furious force of nature and he's crouching on the bench beside him, his face an inch from Dean's and his hands curled in Dean's shirt. "You have no idea," he growls, and he is terrifying to behold. "Literally. You'll never know. Tomorrow I'll be nothing to you. If you never met me again, you'd never be the wiser. And you'd never know how much I love you and miss you and want to take this away from you. Like I used to," and his voice is wrecked. His forehead drops to Dean's chest, and he's shoving his cloth-covered fists into his eyes to stop the tears. "I used to save you, Dean! I used to protect you and watch over you and keep you safe. I married you, for fuck's sake, so that I could do just that. For all the time we had left, I was going to protect you."

While Cas loses himself in his grief, Dean wraps his arms around him, pulls him in as tight as he can in the close confines of the booth. He shushes him softly and kisses his hair. Strokes his back and his shoulder and his hair through the worst of the storm.

Dean's dimly aware of a deep hush breaking and of noise returning all around them. But his eyes are shut tight against his own tears of frustration and loss and fear. How many times will we end up here, he wonders.

"Cas. I-" He leaves off, uncertain what he could say, what he could ever hope to say to remedy the pain in Cas. Best he can do is try to add some joy. "Cas. Hey." He's kissing his forehead, trying to bring him around. "Will you, uh, will you spend the day with me? Show me the town, take me to the places you love. I want to know you, Cas."

He's never watched a person melt into a puddle before.

"Dean, yes, please. All of that."

He chuckles. "I don't know what we had, but I can guess. And it sounds pretty a-fucking-mazing. Can we try? To keep it going, even if I don't know who the hell you are?"

Cas is absolutely beaming, frozen in a deliriously joyful stare, and Dean can't help laughing again. It seems he has broken Cas.

***

By the time they pay the check and step out into the street, the day is half gone. 

"Where to, Cas?" Dean asks. 

Cas shoots him a look, and on the double take, he smiles and starts to move toward the Impala. He suggests they drive to the local shopping district, with its pleasant city park, perfect for strolling. And it's a lovely idea, until Dean tries to open the passenger door for Cas and accidentally kisses him instead. And then he tries to stop kissing him and accidentally grabs his butt instead. And by the time he's failed at stopping that, they're pretty fucking indecent. They fold themselves into the car and make out on the bench seat until they are positively drunk on one another.

"Would you mind if we took this party back to my room, babe?" 

"Please. I love when you call me 'babe,'" Cas pants. "But I can't let go of you. Can you drive from down here?"

Dean laughs and catches Cas in another kiss. He wrestles him upright, straddles him, pins him in his seat. Without breaking the embrace, he tugs at the seatbelt and tucks Cas in; the other man gasps at the restraints. "Babe," Dean murmurs again, feeling the thrill it gives Cas. "We'll be back to the motel in a minute. Promise."

***

"Be gentle with me," Dean teases, his head on the pillows, looking up at Cas with the most delicious bedroom eyes. "It's my first time, maybe."

Cas backs off entirely, eyes wide. "Oh Dean, I'm sorry, I didn't think. I don't want to take advantage of you."

"No. Not taking advantage. Cas, I want this," with a lascivious and probably completely unconscious hip wiggle. "I want you. I want you to take everything you want from me. Now. And I don't know if you've noticed," he adds, dropping his voice and pulling Cas over him, "but 'now' is all I've got."

"All right, love," he nods. "I understand. Just promise me you won't fall asleep afterward."

"Why's that?"

"Because that's when you reset."

***

At the pizzeria for dinner that night, Cas orders for both of them, to Dean’s amusement. He can’t begin to know what Cas likes, but Cas knowing what Dean likes assures him that the other man is who he says he is: husband, lover, friend, comrade. Cas had called Dean the love of his life, and it unnerved him to hear words of such magnitude on what amounts to a first date. 

In the dark, though, as Dean fights sleep, he pours out the secrets of his heart. He wants to tell Cas everything. If Dean is to live in this narrow prison of 24-hour lifetimes, he wants Cas to have every possible clue to capturing his affections, every day for the rest of their lives. He falls asleep, gripping a lover tight, terrified to know that he will wake up in the arms of a stranger.


	3. Let's Try It Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is what a bad day looks like.

The morning light streams straight through the sheer curtains, shining full in his eyes.

There's a body under him. Warm, solid... um, hard. Okay, that's different. He pulls his head up, shifts to look at the face of the man in his bed. Damn. Even half-asleep, Dean's beginning to understand why he broke the cardinal rule, because the guy sleeping next to him is fucking gorgeous. Emphasis on the fucking.

He should go. He should really go. But. He can't remember anything about last night, and he's not a hundred percent sure he knows where he is. At least he's not hungover- his head feels fine, no dry-mouth. Well, except when he looks at the Adonis again. Wait, Adonis would be younger, right? This guy's gotta be ten years older than Dean. Fine, he'll just go with "sculpted demigod." Much less gay.

Dean shakes his head. Who's he kidding? Not anyone who got his ass pounded last night.

He should at least have the decency to feel like shit about that. God knows he's the universe's chew toy, but that doesn't mean he has to let himself get fucked by random dudes. He thought he was past that stage of his life.

Still, the guy stayed. That's gotta mean something. He looks again at his face, sees there a slackness that doesn't mesh with the unconscious tension of a one-night stand. He's still sleeping deeply, not the easily-broken sleep of an alcohol haze. Dean's gonna go out on a limb here and assume that this guy doesn't spend a lot of time picking up strangers in bars. He looks too trusting.

Moment of truth: Should I stay or should I go now? Eh, I'm going to Hell anyway. May as well spring for first-class, he reasons as he grinds his hips against the other man's morning wood.

Sleepily, the guy rolls with it, giving back and tangling his fingers in Dean's hair as he slowly awakens. His eyes flutter once, then fly open. He stills. "Dean," he breathes.

Dean purrs back, "Hi."

The smile on this guy. It's intoxicating. Like somehow, Dean matters. "Hi." He kisses Dean, then, and it's soft and gentle and, well, not at all like Dean thought it would be. "Are you- What do you-" He catches his breath, swallows, tries again. So softly, he whispers, "Do you remember me?"

Dean chuckles. "I don't know what the hell I drank last night, but we must have got up to some shenanigans, huh?" 

Wrong answer. He's never seen a face go from 60 to 0 before, and Dean feels absolutely awful. Rolling off and sitting cross-legged a respectful distance away, he offers the other guy a small, repentant smile. "I'm sorry, I must be getting old. Can't hold my liquor like I used to. Can we start over?"

The guy nods.

Dean pops a charming grin on his face and holds out his hand. "Hi, I'm Dean."

"Cas," he replies, solemnly taking the hand.

"Cas. Nice to meet you. I hope we, uh- Did we have a good time last night?"

"We did," and Cas smiles, a little distant, but fond. 

Dean returns it. "I like you, Cas. Maybe we, uh." He clears his throat, screws up his courage. "Maybe we can have a do-over?"

~~~

The key in the lock snicks softly and Cas pushes the door open noiselessly. Grabbing the two mugs of black coffee from the window sill, he steps inside, loafers silent over carpet. 'Dean, I've got your-" With a gasp, he realizes that Dean is asleep. "No no no no no," he chants under his breath. Dammit.

Sigh. Nothing for it now. He decides to leave one cup of coffee anyway. He'd better grab his clothes, too, and make sure the condom gets thrown out. Really, Cas was pleased to see Dean behaving responsibly in at least one facet of his life, and yet he wishes they could go back to the old days when they had agreed on monogamy and had finally ditched the sheaths once and for all. After all, Cas had reasoned, the number of pathogens in their bodies from endless exposure to non-human bodily fluids probably outweighed any potential harm they might experience from interpersonal contact.

Dean had laughed and called him a nerd. Cas'd gotten miffed and refused to kiss him. Dean had just laughed harder and accused Cas of having monster cooties, dancing closer and closer without touching him, until Cas had finally relented and snatched him up and flung him on the bed, and they'd laughed and kissed and fucked and touched for hours.

Everything had been so simple then. Simple and frightening. There'd been hell nightmares: Dean shaking awake in the night, only to sit upright and scream, or thrash on the pillows and whimper for it to stop. And nothing that Castiel could do. Powerless and hapless and hopeless, no longer capable of picking up the pieces, of reconstructing Dean Winchester.

But wasn't that why they'd made the deal in the first place? To stop the nightmares? To end the panic attacks that threatened the peace and tranquility of their tiny human lives, to silence the demons that chattered in Dean's brain and drove him to distraction in the night?

Cas thinks of these things as he gazes down at his sleeping husband. So peaceful. So oblivious. So far removed from the soul he'd fallen for, from the man he'd married. He tsks, reaches out to brush a thin tendril of hair away from Dean's forehead.

A hand clamps down on his wrist and squeezes, tearing a cry from Cas. "Who the hell are you?" Dean growls.

"No one," Castiel replies calmly. He has a theory that the bastard can smell fear, and it hasn't yet been disproved. "I have the wrong room, I think." Cas sees the pillow shift slightly. He's looking for the knife. Just the reason they'd confiscated it. "I'm so sorry to disturb you. Please, let me go."

"Where's my brother?"

"Your brother? What does he look like? I'll look for him."

Dean just stares. "Forget it," he growls again, shoves away the wrist that's under his hand, propelling the owner towards the door. "Today's your lucky day. Go."

"Yessir. I do apologize."

Outside, he leaves Sam a voicemail. "I'm sorry, Sam, I'm compromised; he caught me in his room. Please, Sam, please take care of him."

He is a block and a half away when a reply comes by text: _Outside his door- go- i've got this._

A moment later, Cas receives a second message from Sam. _I'm sorry cas- i'm sorry that this is so much worse than the nightmares- take care of yourself and be safe- you'll be needed tomorrow :)_

Cas shakes his head, wraps his arms across his chest against the biting wind. Coldest day of the month, he really should have put on more than a t-shirt and yesterday’s dress pants to run upstairs for coffee. He continues stomping along the sidewalk, not realizing that the real chill is within himself.

~~~

“Sammy where are you?! Come quick. Dude in our room. Could be trouble. Don't ask.”

Sam listens to the voicemail from room 124, but he bides his time for another moment or so before opening the door. He doesn't want to look suspicious. Strolling in, he calls out, "What's up, Dean?" 

"Okay, promise you won't laugh?"

Sam shrugs. "I promise."

"Not laugh."

"Never."

"I mean it, Sammy, this is serious."

"What's wrong?" Sam looks properly concerned now. 

"Um. I think I might've- maybe I- someone roofied me."

"What?!"

"Look around, dude, the clothes." He shakes his head, mortified, ashamed. His eyes are wet. "Jesus Christ, Sammy, how did I let this happen? How did I not know?"

Sam envelops his big brother in a massive hug and murmurs reassurances.

"It's okay, Dean. Really. Scary as this is, you'll forget all about it tomorrow."

~~~

Cas walks. He walks and walks, and sometimes he runs. And when he stops, he looks to the heavens and he screams his impotent rage to the universe.

"Michael, you sick son of a bitch! You knew how it would be! And you let us consent! You tricked us, and you left, and now we're trapped in this Hell, you miserable excuse for a guardian! Come back here and account-"

"Calm yourself, Castiel," a voice sounds behind him.

Cas whirls, furious as a hurricane. "You. What have you done to us?"

Michael spreads his palms. Oozing sores already begin to form on the weak unworthy flesh of his temporary vessel. "This body is fragile and will not withstand me long. Let's find a less ... human venue for this conversation." He snaps his vessel's long feminine fingers, and the body falls away.

Cas blinks and finds himself in zero space. "Heaven."

His brother looms large, impossibly large, larger than the cosmos, before shrinking in an instant to mirror Castiel's frame.

"I didn't expect to return here until- or possibly ever."

"You will. You may be the most disobedient child Father ever created, certainly the most anthropophilic even of Gabriel's bleeding-heart lineage, but your intentions are always pure."

"The humans have a saying about good intentions."

"Yes. And yours have led you to Hell, Purgatory ... and your current predicament."

Cas bows his head. "I see. Michael, am I being punished?"

"Not by anyone but you."

"Then what can we do?"

A celestial kiss alights on his head. "I have no good answers for you, young one."

"If you took it away, the memory block, would it all come crashing back at once?"

Michael considers the consequences of such an act. "It would not be exactly like breaking the wall Death built in the younger Winchester's mind. Nor would it be a pleasant experience for your companion. Do not forget why you proposed the idea in the first place."

"I remember. I was selfish; I wanted to rid us of the nightmares and the debilitating fears and- I had no idea that it would mean taking Dean's pain as I once took Sam's. Worse, I did not consider what it would mean for Sam. He sacrifices every day for his brother's comfort. Most days I can do nothing but watch him from afar." He falls to his knees. "Michael, I beg you, take this away. Help us. Release us."

"You made this deal together. I cannot revoke it without Dean's consent."

Cas' shoulders sag and he slumps forward. On Earth, the position, forehead touching the dusty ground, would imply complete submission; the gesture is no different in Heaven. "Please."

"You broke Sam's wall for selfish reasons. Knowing now what you only suspected then, would you now do the same to Dean? Would you willfully inflict on him memories that he himself has willed buried forever?"

A deep shudder wracks Cas as he sobs, "No! No, Michael, I can't. I won't hurt Dean."

Michael says nothing for some time, observing Castiel's prostrations. At length, he bestirs himself to remark, "I have no good answers for you, Castiel. But you- You were made differently. Rather than follow, you improvise. Rather than obey, you imagine. You are built for innovation, not orders, and you carry within your human bones the spark, the thing they call creativity. Not even the archangels, not even your grandsire Gabriel, can boast this. If any being, angelic or otherwise, is to find the solution you seek, it will be you, Castiel."

When Cas lifts his head, Michael is gone, Heaven is no more. Slowly, reluctantly, Cas drags himself out of the dirt and stumbles to his safe house, the pub at the end of Johnson Street. He'll try again tomorrow.


	4. Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam goes on a hunt alone, and Dean is unsupervised. Cas lacks willpower.

The morning light streams straight through the sheer curtains, shining full in his eyes. He buries his face in the plump, warm pillow, rubs his nose sleepily into the white cotton. He fumbles for his phone to check the time, before he realizes that he has no idea where he is. Nothing new there, really. He's spent his whole life waking up in strange beds, groggy and disoriented. He pulls himself up onto his elbows and peers around the room. Looks like every other motel room he's ever seen.

There's a note pinned to the door.

He drags his bare feet over the thick shag on his way to the door. The note reads: "Hey Dean, off on a quick trip, easy salt-n-burn with a hunter from the next town over. Be back in the am. You got hit pretty hard last night so stay in, watch some TV, sleep it off. Food and beer in the fridge. Call me if you have any symptoms and I'll come right back. If you need anything, call the motel office (0)- tell them you're in room 124- they know what's up. -Sam"

Well he can't remember exactly what hit him last night, can't remember exactly what city they're in today, but he'll call later if the old noggin gets worse. For now, there's food and beer in the fridge. Ah cold pizza and beer, breakfast of champions. He flips on the television and finds a Star Trek marathon on the very first station. Awesome!

He dozes off sometime mid-afternoon.

~~~

The light is all wrong. Somehow the light coming in from the window looks more like late-afternoon shade than morning light. He fumbles on the night stand for his phone. Not here. Must be in his pants pocket. His watch is here, though. Five in the afternoon, and he's in bed. Still in his shorts. What the fuck? 

He sits up and takes in his surroundings. Typical motel room. Western theme. "Sammy?" Probably not here- his bed is made. Oh but there's a note on the door. Dean hops out of bed to take a closer look at it. "You got hit pretty hard." He doesn't remember what they did yesterday. Was that the vengeful spirit in Tucson or the witch in Colorado Springs? His days are all jumbled. 

He should probably call Sam, just to touch base. But he'll ask about the knock on the noggin. Dean decides to tough it out; he'll call later if anything changes. For now, he's in no pain, he's well-rested for once in his life, and there's food and beer in the fridge. 

Speaking of beer, Sam could at least have the courtesy to throw out the empties, Dean thinks as he goes to toss two bottles into the trashcan. Not like them to leave garbage lying around when they leave- 

Dean spots a couple more beer bottles and, more importantly, a pie box in the garbage can. Peach. Dean's pretty sure he'd remember eating peach pie. And Sammy knows better than to leave that kind of evidence around, unless he wants to sleep outside. Then again, Sammy's funny about the junk food sometimes. 

"Damn, I had pie and I don't even remember," he complains to the empty room.

He grabs the pizza box with its three sad slices of cold pizza from the table and reaches into the fridge for a beer. Score, there're two more pies wedged in amongst the beer and Chinese take-out. He liberates a cherry pie and carries his treasures to Sam's bed. He's not here; no need for Dean to get crumbs on his own blankets! Oh, fork.

He eats and watches a Star Trek marathon on TV. Original series. Good stuff. Dean reckons he could watch old-school Captain Kirk all day every day and never get bored. Uhura, too. He nods, smiling to himself.

He kicks around the idea of going out. He shouldn't, not if he can't remember where he is, let alone what day it is. He'd hoped that would come back eventually, but his head is still stuffed with cobwebs. 

Whether he goes out or not, he needs a shower. How did he get so stinky just sitting around all day? Not that he often has the luxury of sitting around all day. He should get knocked out more often.

The shower is hot and the water pressure is like heaven sent an angel to personally beat the tension out of his shoulders. Even if the bathroom is a little weird somehow. Maybe it's the color scheme, black and pink. He squeezes a fair amount of coconut shampoo onto his palm and soaps himself up. He's feeling pretty damn good. Why shouldn't he go out and share this good mood with someone? He doesn't even need to get a body under him, but he's thinking he might, just for the hell of it. Time's a-wasting.

He's feeling downright decadent. If he's gonna do this, he's gonna do this right. No way is he taking home the first girl to smile back. That's fine for the post-hunt crash, but tonight's gonna be special. Tonight, he's only out for the best. He puts on a suit- a suit!- and steals Sammy's best tie. It's not until he goes to fix his hair that he realizes what was so off about the bathroom: there's no mirror. In fact, there are no mirrors anywhere in the room. "What kind of joint is this?" He shrugs and makes do with his reflection in the window. Close enough. 

One small problem: he can't find the key. If it was just him, he could get in easily enough, but the ladies tend not to appreciate his lock-picking skills in the heat of the moment. Something about breaking into a motel room kinda kills the mood. He rigs the door so that it won't lock. Risky, yes, but it's not like they have anything suspicious or dangerous in there at the moment. With a final sweep of his eyes, he deems the room decent for company and swings the door shut. 

"Hey Baby, let's go cause some trouble," he smirks, sliding into the driver's seat. Which is when he realizes that he doesn't have his car keys, either. "Son of a bitch!" he shouts and slaps the steering wheel. Fortunately, this problem is more easily remedied. He knows more than a few tricks to get the old girl revving. A quick manipulation of a couple of wires, and she's purring like a kitten. More like growling like a tiger, he thinks with a dirty smile. He steers her out of the motel parking lot, takes a left, a couple of rights, the windows down to catch the unseasonably warm winter air that smells just like spring. Just driving. 

~~~

Bela's face drifts across Dean's vision, and he smiles as he pulls into the parking lot of an English-style pub. Looks like a respectable place, a place he might find, well, maybe not a girl of her caliber, but a step up from the usual local tail. He's willing to be seduced by a sexy voice.

Walking in, however, disappointment strikes. Talk about a sausage party. He sees only three women in the whole place: the rid-hard middle-aged barkeep and the two in a corner booth who've already found what they came for. 

He hasn't, but he's not ready to give up hope so easily. Dean orders a Canadian whiskey and takes a seat at the bar, a dark, solid old thing full of scratches and dings, plenty of character. The barstools have curved backrests with arms. His seat swivels smoothly, and he takes to swinging his hips back and forth while keeping his upper body firmly planted on the bar. It's not consciously done, but it attracts the attention of the man on the short end of the bar, a courtesy seat away. Dean notices him staring and catches a clue. "Sorry," he mutters, and stills his legs.

The man shakes his head almost imperceptibly and resumes staring, this time into his drink. 

Dean's nursing the drink, taking his time, when he realizes that the guy at the end is watching him again. "Hey man, can I help you?"

He startles, shakes his head vehemently now. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't-"

"You good?"

He raises his eyebrows and exhales a dark laugh. "No. But, uh. I'm good." He manages a small smile. "It's just that, um, you look like, uh, someone I love."

Dean wrinkles his forehead. "Look man, I know I'm pretty and all, and I'm sure she is, too, but-" 

"Not she," he murmurs.

"What's that?"

A little louder, the man repeats himself. "Not she. He."

That gives Dean pause. "You're gay?"

The man bobs his head in a "maybe" sort of gesture. "Perhaps. Married to a man. But, uh, I tend to think that I am indifferent to sexual orientation."

Dean calculates. "So you're not picky, is what you're saying."

"More or less." He finishes what's left of his drink. "What about you?"

"Me?"

"Do you consider yourself gay, straight, or indifferent?"

He ducks his head, smiles into his drink, an embarrassed smirk. "I don't know. Never really thought about it," he lies. He takes a minute to really look at the guy. Dean can't deny that he's attractive. Dark hair, tousled, and maybe that's a little hot. Seriously blue eyes. Can't doubt his taste in clothes- they're wearing very similar suits, although his looks a little newer, more stylish, and better tailored, than Dean's. "Yeah, indifferent sounds about right." He doesn't mean to throw the guy a toothy grin, but he wouldn't take it back if he could.

The man drops his eyes and smiles to light up the room.

"I'm Dean, by the way."

"Cas."

"Nice to meet you, Cas." Dean smiles. "Whatcha drinking there?"

"Oh, it's an Islay."

"Good choice." The bartender's on the other end of the bar, but she gets the hint when he points to Cas' glass and holds up two fingers. "Do you mind if I buy you a drink?"

There's that smile again (Dean would question his sexuality a thousand times for that smile), and his eyes almost glow. "I'd like that."

The drinks come, and Dean scoots to the corner barstool, directly adjacent to Cas. If their knees bump as he gets situated, neither man seems to care. Soon the leg contact becomes deliberate, their elbows are touching, and one's laughter ghosts across the other's skin. Two drinks, another, and they've gone the way of the women in the corner booth. 

"You wanna come to mine, Cas?" Dean rasps. "I'm in a motel up the road, but-"

"I'd like that," he breathes. "I'll get a cab," and taps on the screen of his cell phone.

Dean notices. "Fancy phone you got there. Is it a Blackberry?"

"Oh!" Cas shoves it back into his pocket before Dean can look any closer. "No, it's, uh, new."

"Looks cool," Dean replies simply, dropping the subject in favor of Cas' lips. 

As they stumble outside, Dean points out his Baby. "Shame I can't drive you around in that sexy beast. That's my favorite girl. She's awesome."

"We'll get it tomorrow."

"Yeah. Good thing you called a cab," he slurs. "I have no idea how to get around in this town."

Cas can't keep his hands and eyes and lips off of Dean the entire way back to the motel. He tries to kiss Dean against the door and it falls open at a touch. 

"Sorry, forgot about that," Dean mumbles as they catch themselves from falling into the room. 

Jackets are shed at the door. A pale blue tie goes left, a hunter green tie goes right. The buttons, oh the buttons, cost them a moment's concentration, but soon the shirts and undershirts are gone, too, and they're skin-to-skin, kissing in the middle of the motel room like they're clinging to life rafts. 

Something shifts, and they slow. "Hey Cas."

"Yes?"

"What do you like? What do you want?"

Cas squirms, clasps Dean's hands in his. Watches as his thumb rubs gently at the knuckle under it. "It's probably ... inappropriate to say so, but, um, he always liked to let me do ... whatever I wanted. Um. He trusted me to please him, to take care of him." He looks up then to see Dean's reaction; he's blushing a little, eyes hooded, and his lips are parted as he nods softly. "May I take care of you, Dean?" 

"I'd like that."

~~~

The small bloom of panic forms when Sam pulls in to the motel and sees that the Impala is missing. When he finds Dean's door unlocked, he nearly draws his weapon. He edges silently into the room and scans as his eyes adjust to the dark room. There are two bodies in the bed, spooned under the thick blanket. A Cas-shaped shadow sits up from the pillows, and Sam blows out a heavy sigh.

"Jesus, Cas, what were you thinking," he hisses.

Cas holds a finger to his lips and gestures for Sam to turn around. He doesn't understand, shakes his head with confusion on his face, and Cas gestures again, this time with a firm "do as I say" tilt of his eyebrows. Sam catches on - _oh shit, he's naked!_ \- and turns towards the door until he hears the bathroom door shut.

Okay, so today is Plan B. Or is it C now? Sam has a hard time keeping his days straight anymore, what with all the chaos of trying to include Dean in a life that he remembers only in a world that no longer exists. It was hard enough to keep him safe and sane when he only interacted with Sam. To now fold in Cas, of whom Dean has no memory, is to make every single day a uniquely challenging ordeal. Thank God they only need to keep up the lies for a day at a time.

If he's being fair, though, he's glad that their making the effort to insert Cas into Dean's mayfly life. The pressure of being Dean's only caretaker, in addition to the demands of his own real life was, frankly, driving him crazy. If they can ease Dean into his day, with the understanding that this third man exists in their fragile little family, whatever his role, well, that's a victory right there.

Cas had been going nuts, hiding just outside of his husband's line of sight. Observing without necessarily being observed. He felt useless, and he knew that he had only himself to blame for the situation. His _modus operandi,_ as it were. Sam had seen the warning signs of his destructive habits, the drinking, the pharmaceuticals, before any permanent damage was done. Had, in fact, dragged his drunk ass off of a co-ed in a bar, the last straw for both of the men. Sam had waited for the asshole's hangover to kick in before he laid into him about loyalty and self-control. They'd nearly come to blows that day, and would have, had Dean not heard the commotion and come to investigate. That had been the first day in months that Dean had seen Cas, the first day to end happily after three and a half months of frustration and worry and isolation.

Almost made Sam yearn for the good old days, when all he had to worry about was how Gabriel would kill Dean today. Damn archangels.

It had taken a bit more time to agree on the best way to integrate Cas, knowing as they did how well Dean took to strangers. They'd made a rough game plan, and to Sam's knowledge, they've stuck to it exactly once, and the next day had been so bad for Cas that he'd gone into hiding. It had taken Sam three days to flush him out, and another two days before he was fit to be seen. Sam had managed to convince Cas to try again. And that’s when Dean met Cas by accident. That had been a long day, a tricky day, but a good one, and before the end, Dean had helped the others concoct a new plan: the picture frame idea worked, the chat over breakfast worked; staying the night did not work. As long as Cas hit the road after lights out, all would be well. To Sam’s relief, Cas had agreed.

And then he'd gone on to doubt the wisdom of performing intercourse on Dean, and it'd been everything Sam could do not to clock his brother-in-law. Or jam his fingers in his ears and scream "La la la la la!" He definitely did not need to know the way-too-intimate details of his brother’s sex life, Jesus Christ on a crutch.

Though the insight did support Dean's assertion that he'd been given Rohypnol. Yeesh.

So, he mused, a Sam-only day was Plan A, a photograph day was Plan B, Sam and Cas walking in like the angel had always been there, yup, that was Plan C. He thought they'd done away with Plan D, let Dean wake up next to a dude and maybe not go into panic mode. Sam sighed over Cas' weakness for his dumb brother. After almost seven months of this, there were still no clear-cut patterns to predict how Dean would react to a given scenario, but with practice, it became easier to roll with the punches.

This time, Dean awoke at the sound of the bathroom door opening on a freshly washed and dressed Castiel. He was reminded for the 200th time about his memory-loss, chalked up, as usual, to a hunting accident, and the three of them went off to face a new day.


	5. Early Riser

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean goes for a walk and lucks into a date.

It’s still dark when Dean wakes, much earlier than usual. The room is empty, Sam's bed neatly made. He can't remember where they are, though he's pretty sure that it's the second. Poor Sammy always likes a little space on the anniversary of Jess' death, and Dean is only too happy to give him some breathing room. If he hasn't heard from him by tomorrow morning, he'll give him a shout. In the meantime, Dean's on his own.

That being the case, he tries the usual trick to get himself back to sleep. No good. He's relaxed now, yeah, but more wide awake than when he started. Bummer. He rolls out of bed, dresses, and decides to go out for a walk, get the lay of the land. 

He meanders for awhile, up and down side streets, careful not to get himself lost. About a mile from the motel, as the crow flies, he strolls into a coffee shop. His wallet is somewhat lighter than he remembers, but nothing too suspicious- there's gotta be a reason his memory is playing tricks on him, and it probably wasn't cheap. Still, he's got enough for a large drip coffee and a chicken biscuit. 

Taking a seat near the window, just to the left of the counter, he spots the messy remains of a newspaper on the next table over. The _Mercury_. Kansas. Cool. He snatches it up and peruses the headlines. When his eyes land on the date, he stares. 

Friday, May 13, 2016.

That can't be right.

He looks around for a clue, for some confirmation that he's lost eight and a half fucking years. He catches some weird tech, like the credit card swipe on the cash register and the girl on the other side of the cafe with the strange boxy cell phone. The logo on the Ice Mountain bottles is wrong. He checks his pocket, and sonofabitch if the shiny penny he got with his change isn't stamped 2016. And wouldn't that explain why it's so damn hot in November?

What the hell happened to him? He jostles his head like he'll knock his memory back into place, but of course nothing happens. He's not hurt, yet somehow, he's lost almost a decade! Then again, he's not hurt; he knows where he is and his memory is not getting worse. He must have gotten clocked last night. He figures that, if something was really horribly wrong with him, he'd be in a hospital. At the very least, Sam would not have slept away. If his brother isn't worried, well, maybe there's nothing to worry about. For now, Dean's content to enjoy a rare quiet moment, even if it is in the wrong year.

He's just re-folding the paper and thinking about leaving when a guy runs in the front door, looking absolutely frantic. He rushes past the line to ask the woman at the cash register a whispered question. She gestures with her chin and he spins on his heel. As he looks around the cafe, he exhales sharply and Dean can see him visibly relax.

Catching his eye by accident, Dean smiles at the guy. "Found what you were looking for?"

"Yes, I did,” and it comes out as a sigh. “Excuse me, though, I just need to make a phone call." He dashes out, and he comes back in a few minutes later with a smile for Dean. At the same time, one of the baristas calls out an order for 'Cas.'

The man grabs it and makes his way to Dean's table. "Mind if I join you? I could use a cheerful face right about now."

"No problem. What's going on? If you don't mind-"

"Oh long story, a friend went missing. But we found him. That," he waves towards the door, "was me calling off the search party."

"Heh. Must have been a hell of a night."

"More like business as usual," he grumbles into his coffee. He looks up then and puts on a kind smile. "Sorry, I'm being rude. I'm Cas."

"Dean. Nice to meet you. So uh, everything's okay."

"Everything's great," Cas replies, and his smile grows in brilliance. "Dean," he warbles. "Can I get you anything? They have an unbelievable breakfast pie here you might-"

"Breakfast pie?" Dean asks wonderingly.

"It sounds crazy, I know. Egg custard and cream cheese atop a traditional fruit pie filling. Some have croissant pastry on top."

Dean's staring into space, trying to imagine the glory of breakfast pie.

"Is that grin on your face a Yes?" Cas guesses.

Dean nods, a lascivious glint in his eye.

Cas smiles and holds up one finger. "I'll be right back; don't go anywhere, promise?"

"Oh I promise!"

Dean watches as Cas navigates toward the line. Watches as he bounces lightly on the balls of his feet, incapable of standing still. Watches as he shoves both hands into his back pockets. Watches Cas so intently that he forgets to look away when he glances over and smiles. Dean smiles back awkwardly and pops him a shy, embarrassed wave. He looks down at his hands, wishing he knew how to be cool, and at the same time secretly thrilled that Cas seems to appreciate a good flirt. It has been so long since he had a friend, a guy who might understand what it's like to- to what? It's early, but he could see himself getting close to a dude like this. Someone tough. Someone unwilling to compromise, but not afraid to, just, not afraid. Dean sighs and rests his face in his hand.

"Here you are," Cas announces, returning to the table wielding three different varieties of breakfast pie. Cas sets the peach in front of Dean, the blueberry in the middle of the tables, and the cherry at his own chair. "What do you think?"

Dean takes a scoop from the tip of the wedge before him, being careful to capture some of the crumbly biscuit topping. "It smells awesome." The huge forkful disappears into his mouth and he mumbles his thanks. But it's his eyes rolling back into his head that really tell the tale.

Cas samples his before cutting a huge bite of cherry-cheese-danish and holding the spoon out to Dean. "Dude, if you knew me, you would not do that. "

"Why not?" Cas asks, eyes suspiciously wide and innocent.

"Because I'll- it doesn't matter if I've known you ten minutes or ten years, you dangle pie in front of me and I will eat it. Your spoon or mine, I don't care."

"I don't mind," Cas purrs.

Dean raises an eyebrow, then leans across the table and snatches the cherry pie off Cas' spoon with his lips.

"How do you like it?" Cas breathes.

"Damn," he mutters. Smirking, he replies, "I may need another bite to know for sure."

They share the three slices amongst themselves, occasionally trading bites across the table. Cas makes obscene noises over the cherry pie, and Dean behaves not much better. They almost lick the plates clean, Dean scraping the very molecules of custard off the plate with his fork, while Cas smudges a finger through a thick dollop of cream and licks it off. The last fingerful of pie, though, Cas catches Dean's eye. He reaches across the table, tempting Dean with the blueberry-stained cream. "Take it," he whispers. 

Dean leans forward and sucks Cas' finger into his mouth, never taking his eyes from Cas'.

Cas moans softly. "Dean."

He pops off and murmurs, "You wanna get out of here?"

~~~

Outside, Dean starts to tell Cas about the motel situation. "I hope it's not weird. I mean, we travel a lot. We're here on business, so-"

"It's fine," Cas cuts him off, explaining awkwardly about living in a motel full-time. "My friends and I, we own it, and it's just easier to run if-"

"No, it's cool, I get it."

They rock on their heels a moment longer, neither quite sure where to pick up the thread. 

"So, do you wanna?" Dean asks. "Um, walk?"

"Where?"

Dean rolls his eyes nervously. "I dunno, man, I'm the tourist. You tell me; what do ya'll do for fun around here?"

Cas thinks a moment. "I think that ten in the morning is too early to shoot pool, right?"

"Yeah," Dean chuckles, "it's a little early to hit the bars."

"What about the arcade on Claflin?"

Dean perks up at that. "Arcade? There's an arcade?"

"Yeah, it's a good one. Lots of old games, not too many new ones. And they serve beer. And corndogs," he adds slyly.

"Corndogs!" Dean laughs. "I can make a million jokes about corndogs." 

"I know, you, um." Cas clears his throat. "Oh. On a date, though-"

"Is that what this is?"

Cas gazes hard at Dean, squinting slightly. "Yes."

Wary, Dean flinches. "You're, uh, you're very forward, you know that?"

Cas smiles sadly, stepping into Dean’s space and letting his hands fall to Dean’s hips. “Our time is limited, Dean,” he murmurs, his lips disarmingly close to Dean’s. “If I don’t ask for what I want, I may not get it at all.”

“Yeah okay,” he sighs, “I get that.”

Cas closes the distance. It’s a sweet first kiss, a simple press of lips without heat. Dean whispers Cas’ name as they pull apart, and kisses him again. He lets Cas in, lets Cas back him against the wall, lets Cas clutch at his arms, his face, dig long fingers into his hair. His own hands burrow uncertainly under Cas’ shirt, into his back pockets. He’s shy and nervous, yet this feels so natural. “You’re perfect,” he pants, as Cas’ lips migrate to Dean’s neck and jaw. 

He kisses Dean’s name against his pulse, and Dean shivers, because it feels like he’s saying so much more, saying everything. 

“Jesus Christ, Cas, don’t ever stop, it feels so good.”

“Dean,I lo-” His hands clench and he draws his lips between his teeth. 

“What? What did I say?”

Cas pulls away to face Dean. “Nothing. No, my-” He swallows. “It’s not you,” he assures him with as much gravity as he can muster. “I almost said … something I would regret.”

“Are we moving too fast?”

He hums. “Not for me, but … I think this is all new to you.”

Dean chuckles and rubs his neck. “Yeah, I guess it is. But I like the kissing,” he adds shyly, ducking his head. “This is stupid, but, uh, it doesn’t feel like the first time.”

Cas stares.

“Nah, I told you it was stupid,” he mumbles, backtracking.

Cas rushes him again, kisses him softly until his cheeks are wet and he gasps.

“Hey.” Dean takes Cas’ hands in his. “Are you okay?” he asks quietly. 

Nodding and swiping at his eyes, Cas rasps an inarticulate reply, but it amounts to a yes. When he reclaims eye contact, he apologizes. “I was just, um, remembering; I was overwhelmed. I’m fine. Thank you.”

“Sure?”

Cas smiles. “I’m sure. Come on,” holding out a hand, “walk with me?”

~~~

“It’s cliché, maybe, but I had a fun time today. I’ve never had an all-day date before.”

Cas hums and gives him a noncommittal grin.

“Hey, uh, do you wanna come in?”

A smile graces Cas’ face, but he shakes his head. “I shouldn’t.”

“You can,” Dean whispers, a little shyly. 

Mouth firm and eyes soft, Cas says simply, “I won’t.”

A single nod from Dean, and he asks, “Will I see you tomorrow?”

“I certainly hope so.” He leans against Dean and kisses him gently. His eyes shine as they pull apart. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll tell you what I’m thinking right now.”

“Hmm. Maybe tomorrow, I’ll tell you the same thing.”

“Good night, Dean.”

“Good night, Cas.”


End file.
